Donald Hamilton - The Betrayers

"Yes?"

"What are you going to do now? Shouldn't you be, well, doing something? I mean, besides watching the top of my poor bedraggled dress, hoping I'll fall out."

"I am doing something," I said. "I'm trying to figure out how to catch that fish. He looks like a nice big tasty one. What do you know about survival-type fishing?"

She moved her shoulders. "Well, I once read a story where a girl unraveled her stockings for a line and used a bit of metal from her garter for a hook…"

I heard it then. Somebody was slipping through the jungle from the west, as well as one can slip through that tangled stuff. Somehow we'd been spotted sailing in here, and now the fish-the big fish-was taking the bait I'd offered him: me. I wouldn't have to go through the motions of looking for him, after all. He was coming looking for me.

I said casually, "Well, we can give it a try. I'm getting pretty damn hungry. I think your stockings are still on the boat, keeping company with my necktie. Where'd you hang up your intimate garments?"

She told me. She seemed intrigued by the project. "I'm afraid the garter stuff is all plastic nowadays," she said, "but there's a wire in my bra we can use. Matt, be serious. What are you going to do?"

I leaned over to kiss her, and gave her ungirdled behind a disrespectful slap that I'd never have presumed to apply to the smoothly controlled derriere of yesterday's aloof and dignified Mrs. Marner. I hoped the by-play looked nice and casual to the man out in the brush.

"Relax, doll," I said. "Food first. Now just stay put; don't go wandering off and getting lost. Isobel..

"What is it, Matt?"

"I'm glad you were happy, if only for a moment. Sorry I had to get suspicious and spoil it."

Her eyes searched my face, suddenly questioning. I shouldn't have got sentimental; she was smart enough to guess there was trouble on the way. I could see that she wanted to look around uneasily, but she restrained the impulse. Instead she just smiled and patted my arm. I walked away quickly, wanting to put as much distance between us as possible before they lowered the boom on me, one way or another.

It happened just as I reached the edge of the clearing, but not the way I'd expected. The way it happened was my fault. I'd forgotten that damn gimmicked gun again. I'd left it lying right there on my coat in plain sight, not thinking much about it one way or another, since I knew it wouldn't shoot-but, of course, Isobel didn't know that, and neither did the prowler in the woods.

I heard the snap of a breaking branch out there, and I heard Isobel jump up and cry a warning as sunlight flashed on bright metal among the leaves. Maybe she was just defending herself instinctively. Maybe she was defending me. Or maybe it was that thing she had about guns: here was her chance, at last, to shoot one.

Whatever the reason, she went for the sawed-off revolver on the ground and got it into her hands-both hands, the way I'd told her-and started to aim it, kneeling there.

The gun in the jungle fired only once.

ALMOST THE FIRST thing you learn in this business is to hell with the dead and wounded. I heard the pistol fire. I heard the bullet strike. I heard Isobel gasp and fall. Rushing back to cradle her in my arms and shake my fist at the hidden sniper would have looked great on TV, but it wasn't really practical. As a matter of fact, I never even paused to consider it. I was heading in the other direction.

I hit the tangled stuff hard and went through it like a bulldozer. There are two ways of handling a situation like that. Either you spend all day at it, sneaking around like an Indian trying to catch the guy at a disadvantage, or you rush him right now. I had only my little knife against his gun, but in the jungle that wasn't as great a handicap as it would have been elsewhere. He wouldn't see me, anyway, until I was right on top of him.

I dove into the vines and brush, swung left, and fought my way toward the spot from which the shot had come. I wouldn't have tried it against an automatic weapon, of course, or even against a shotgun. With a good spread of lead you can shoot at sounds with some hope of hitting the guy who made them. But with the revolver I'd glimpsed, the guy couldn't just spray the jungle and hope; he didn't have that much firepower. He probably didn't have that much ammunition, either.

He had to wait until he saw me over the sights at close range, and hope to make the first shot good.

I caught a hint of movement in the brush ahead. He was sneaking off to the right, away from the pool and the motionless body on the ground. I got an impression of a gaudy red-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt and white pants, almost the same costume Hanohano had been wearing. Maybe it was an omen. I didn't stop to figure out whether it was good or bad.

I just gave a loud yell and charged, screaming like a Comanche in full war paint. I mean, there was no chance of his not hearing me coming through that stuff, and people do get nervous, waiting for a clear shot at a howling wild man. Besides, there's a theory to the effect that the louder you shout the better you fight. Anyway, I just felt like yelling. Maybe I was mad.

I broke through the brush and saw my target right there. The gun was my target. I didn't even look at the guy holding it; I focused on the weapon. I had to put it out of action before it killed me; and an instant before I figured the shot was due, I dove in low, beneath the probable course of the bullet. My shoulder cut the guy down, and my hand reached up and got the wrist as we fell together. I slammed the hand and arm against a convenient tree, and the thing was done. Nothing remained but to cut the murdering bastard's throat and smile at him pleasantly as he died.

"Matt! Matt, please. It's me, Jill! Matt, don't…

The voice seemed to come from a long way off. I guess I had been a bit mad, at that. I drew a long breath and sat up, looking at what I had there, pinned to the ground. It was Jill, all right, in sneakers and a pair of those white jeans that are running the blue ones off the market, although I can never see why. Who wants to be washing jeans all the time?

Hers needed washing badly, I noticed. As a matter of fact, with her muddy pants, torn shirt, and tangled hair, she was well qualified to join our castaways' club-and there was a probable opening in the membership, now.

I said harshly, "What the hell are you doing here? Besides shooting people in the back, I mean?"

"Matt, I couldn't help it! She had a gun; she was going to shoot. What could I do?"

"She couldn't have hit you with a sawed-off shotgun and a full box of twenty-five shells."

"How could I know that? How do you know that? Anyway, I didn't shoot her in the back. Are you going to sit on me all day?" I got up slowly. I folded my knife and put it away, while Jill rose and brushed herself off. She said with an effort at lightness, "When you come, Eric, you really come, don't you? I tried to call to you, to tell you who I was, but you were making so much noise you didn't hear me."

"You might have called before shooting, instead of afterward." I pawed around in the vines and leaves until I found her gun, another one of those stainless steel jobs the Monk seemed to pass around like Christmas cards. It wasn't a bad-looking weapon, for a belly-gun. The bright finish had a look of class quite unlike nickel plating. Jill put out her hand, but I stuck the revolver into the top of my pants. "To hell with you, doll. I don't like trigger-happy people around me with guns. Let's go see how much damage you've done. You first."

She started to speak angrily, but checked herself. She licked her lips, and moved off ahead of me. Even in pants, from behind, she was a very good-looking girl, which is something many attempt and few achieve. At the moment, however, I found it hard to appreciate my fine rear view of her glorious young figure. This was the girl I'd come a long way to find, but it was hardly the reunion I'd expected.